12 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart
once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands that the rod of
empire might have sway’d,
Or waked
to ecstasy the living lyre.
13 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample
page,
Rich with
the spoils of Time, did ne’er unroll;
Chill Penury repress’d
their noble rage,
And froze
the genial current of the soul.
14 Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark
unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is
born to blush unseen,
And waste
its sweetness on the desert air.
15 Some village Hampden, that with dauntless
breast
The little
tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious
Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell,
guiltless of his country’s blood.
16 The applause of listening senates to
command,
The threats
of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o’er
a smiling land,
And read
their history in a nation’s eyes,
17 Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed
alone
Their growing
virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through
slaughter to a throne,
And shut
the gates of Mercy on mankind,
18 The struggling pangs of conscious Truth
to hide,
To quench
the blushes of ingenuous Shame,
Or heap the shrine of
Luxury and Pride
With incense
kindled at the Muse’s flame.
19 Far from the madding crowd’s
ignoble strife,[1]
Their sober
wishes never learn’d to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d
vale of life
They kept
the noiseless tenor of their way.
20 Yet e’en these bones, from insult
to protect,
Some frail
memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes
and shapeless sculpture deck’d,
Implores
the passing tribute of a sigh.
21 Their name, their years, spelt by the
unletter’d Muse,
The place
of fame and elegy supply,
And many a holy text
around she strews,
That teach
the rustic moralist to die.
22 For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing,
anxious being e’er resign’d,
Left the warm precincts
of the cheerful day,
Nor cast
one longing, lingering look behind?
23 On some fond breast the parting soul
relies,
Some pious
drops the closing eye requires;
E’en from the
tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E’en
in our ashes live their wonted fires.
24 For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour’d
dead,
Dost in
those lines their artless tale relate,
If chance, by lonely
Contemplation led,
Some kindred
spirit shall inquire thy fate,
25 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
’Oft
have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty
steps the dews away,
To meet
the sun upon the upland lawn.